


Cuffed

by suitesamba



Series: LWS Challenge 15 Bingo [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Johnlock - Freeform, Role Playing, Tumblr: letswritesherlock, sex toy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-10
Updated: 2014-08-10
Packaged: 2018-02-12 13:18:08
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,356
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2111349
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/suitesamba/pseuds/suitesamba
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John wasn’t really in trouble when Sherlock barged into his room. The gun wasn’t loaded, and the noises he was making were certainly not cries of distress.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Cuffed

**Author's Note:**

> Written for LWS Challenge 15, Bingo Card 1, Trope "Handcuffed/Tied Together." Not my usual stuff....

“This really is a bit of not good,” Sherlock muttered. He was lying on his back on John’s bed, handcuffed to both John and the headboard. 

He was also naked, though that was the least of his worries.

“I had the situation under control,” returned John. “There was no reason to barge in here like that.”

“If you’d had it under control, you’d have these handcuffs off us by now.” Once again, he tried to jerk his wrist to loosen the lock, which had to have some sort of safety release on it. No luck. She’d snapped them on perfectly, like she knew exactly what she was doing. Like they were _real_ handcuffs and not some – some sex toy.

“I didn’t know she’d be quite so…assertive,” John said, with a sigh. The sigh could have been interested or it could have been resigned. Sherlock wasn’t quite sure – he definitely needed more data. “And these aren’t my handcuffs, so I don’t have a key.”

“She brought her own handcuffs?” Sherlock glanced at John. This evening was turning out to be quite a bit more enlightening than he’d expected.

“Apparently.” Sherlock watched as John bit his bottom lip. He seemed to be trying to lie as still as possible. John sighed again. It was a long sigh with a small exclamation point on the end.

“I still can’t believe you sat there while she pointed a gun at me and forced me to strip.”

“What did you want me to do? Take her out with my big toe? She already had me handcuffed!”

“Because you _wanted_ to be handcuffed – and naked.” Sherlock rolled to his side, facing away from John, and pouted, not at all caring that John had a nice view of his naked arse. “I need a nicotine patch.” He pulled open the bed stand drawer and fumbled awkwardly inside.

“The gun wasn’t loaded, Sherlock. And there’s nothing in there -”

Nothing of use anyway. A strip of condoms, a tube of scented lube and a box of disposable latex gloves sailed past John’s head. 

“Useless!”

“Quit shaking the bed!”

Sherlock turned his head and gave John a punishing glare. John was still lying on his back with one hand on his belly, breathing very deliberately, as if counting to five with each inhale and exhale. Sherlock’s gaze narrowed. “I need my mobile.”

“Oh, absolutely. Let me just run downstairs and get it for you. I’ll pick up that nicotine patch while I’m down there.” 

John could be snarky even when lying perfectly still. And naked.

“Besides – you always have your mobile. I swear you shower with it. How could you come up here without it?”

“You were making highly unpleasant noises. I assumed your testicles were being ripped out of your body through your mouth. I didn’t think to pocket my mobile before I rushed to your aid. And it wouldn’t have mattered. Had I had it in my hand, she’d have made me drop it. By pointing a _gun_ at my head.” 

“Sherlock -.” John let out a breath. “She threatened me, not you. She pointed the gun at _me_ and told you she’d kill _me_ if you didn’t do what she asked.”

“Why do people always _do_ that?” Sherlock complained.

“Because it’s effective?” suggested John.

Sherlock ignored him. He pulled with his handcuffed hand. As expected, the headboard didn’t budge. As expected, John let out a startled grunt. “Do all your dates carry guns?”

“You do realize she wasn’t exactly my date, don’t you? I just met her tonight.”

“Of course you did. How long have you known her – forty-five minutes?” 

“We’d been to two clubs together before we came back here, arsehole,” John muttered. 

Arsehole? John was certainly in a foul mood, and really had no right to complain given that this was all his fault. “I think it’s time we call for help.”

“It’s three o’clock in the morning, Sherlock. We’re both totally naked, handcuffed to my headboard, and she’s painted your toenails bright red. 

Sherlock raised his head and looked down at his toes. “I don’t understand that either. Why mine and not yours?”

John let out a sound that was half laugh, half scoff. “You barged in here with your _riding crop_ , wearing nothing but your dressing gown, shouting ‘unhand him!’ You snapped that thing in the air over her head. She thought you were mental!” John covered his eyes with his uncuffed arm as if trying to block out the mental image.

“You were handcuffed to the bed – naked, I might add – and she was holding a gun.”

“Role playing, Sherlock! We were role playing! I’ve already explained this.”

“Yet you let her force me to undress _while you watched_ ….”

“You do recall her ordering me not to close my eyes?”

“…and then make me lie down beside you, and handcuffed us together. When – exactly – were you going to tell me you were _role playing_?”

John shifted uncomfortably. “Maybe she’s not really gone. Maybe she’s downstairs just waiting for us to….”

“She’s gone. She took your wallet – or didn’t you notice? I’m sure she’s got mine as well, plus whatever else she could carry out of the flat. Hardly proper date night etiquette,” said Sherlock dismissively.

“She wasn’t my date.”

Sherlock crossed his legs, trying to get more comfortable. His toes brushed against John’s thighs. John jumped, yelped, then returned to his rigid position, hand on his stomach, staring at the ceiling, breathing – in and out, in and out.

A door slammed.

“John? Sherlock?”

Sherlock’s head jerked toward the bedroom door. His brain ran through a catalogue of voices.

Lestrade?

John jumped and gave a throttled, high-pitched scream, followed by an unhappy grunt.

“Fuck.”

Sherlock stared at John. 

John stared back, red-faced. 

And finally Sherlock understood. 

“Oh, John,” he consoled. John John John John John. “You must be exceedingly uncomfortable.”

John groaned and covered his face with one hand.

“Sherlock?” Doors were banging downstairs. It sounded like Lestrade was directly below them. 

“Might take them a while to get out of these cuffs,” mused Sherlock. “Perhaps you should take care of your little problem before New Scotland Yard sends someone over to saw them off.”

“I don’t have a problem,” John grunted out.

Footsteps started up the stairs. “John?”

Sherlock and John locked eyes. Sherlock smirked.

John moved like lightning. He pushed his arse off the bed, reached down and yanked the vibrating toy out of his body and hurled it under the bed.

He screamed.

In pain? Relief? Sherlock definitely needed more data.

The door burst open and Greg Lestrade skidded to a halt just inside the room.

His mouth dropped open.

Sherlock rolled his eyes.

John covered his face with his arm again.

“We’ve been robbed,” said Sherlock. He crossed his leg, jostling John. John winced. 

“Right,” said Lestrade. He was staring at Sherlock's toes.

“My pants?” 

Lestrade looked at the jumble of clothes on the floor. He gingerly picked up a pair of red y-fronts and tossed them at Sherlock.

Sherlock glared at him and tossed the pants toward John. They landed on his head.

Lestrade couldn’t keep the laughter in any longer. He sank into a chair, his whole body shaking. Finally, he pulled two wallets out of his pocket and held them up.

“Someone turned these in. Said they’d found two pair of trousers in an alley near here. I thought you two might be in trouble, but I never imagined _this_.”

John groaned. He grabbed the pants off his head and tried to wiggle into them.

“My pants, Lestrade?” Sherlock demanded.

Lestrade stared at him, mouth twisted into an unreadable expression, then bent down again and sorted through the clothes. He paused.

“What’s that noise?”

“I think it’s my electric toothbr….”

“Quiet!” Lestrade lifted the bed skirt and bent to look.

Sherlock gave an undignified snort.

Lestrade stood up. He looked sick. “I’m not touching that thing,” he said.

John grabbed a pillow and tried to smother himself.

“What the hell?” Lestrade had found the riding crop.

“There’s a very simple explanation,” Sherlock said. “And I’d still like my pants.”

_End Part 1_


End file.
